


Semi-Charmed Life

by Jmeelee



Series: SterekBingo 2019 [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5 + 1, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, Cold War, French Indian War, M/M, Past Lives, Prehistoric, Reincarnation, Sterek Bingo, Sterek Bingo 2019, Temporary Character Death, World War I, triskelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 14:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18719266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: Five times Derek and Stiles meet in past lives, and one fateful meeting today.





	Semi-Charmed Life

**Author's Note:**

> For Sterek Bingo 2019. Themes: Triskelion, Past Lives
> 
> A huge thank you to [Chalala ](https://chalala.tumblr.com/)for the advice on the French in this fic. :-) 
> 
> Warning: I did not tag this fic with Major Character Death, because it's reincarnation and everyone gets to come back (yay!). But please be aware that there is a character death in one section (1917, if you want to skip it).

**Prehistory**

 

Derek stares at the symbol on the cave wall, campfire dancing over three interconnecting spirals, the well-worn curves carved into the rock many moons ago.  His tribe often comes here to pray—for plentiful food, obedient mates—but he is alone now, drawn to the mark like the hunting call of a bison horn. His family expects him home, but he can’t summon the energy to leave this place of peaceful solitude.

 

At least, he  _ had  _ been alone, until a New One walks in, two skinned hares dangling from his slender fist, sinewy arms flexing.  At the sight of Derek he stops, narrow, sloping brow furrowed. Travelers and New Ones do not get along. Derek has stupidly left his spear back at camp, but New Ones, smaller and weaker in stature, are typically no match for Travelers in hand to hand combat.  The only time they are a real danger is in a group, and lately there seems to be more and more of them wherever the tribe migrates.

 

The New One steps closer, and Derek crouches, beating a stocky arm across his barrel chest.  The New One holds up the dead hares, points to the flames with his free hand. “Fire,” he says.  “Eat.”

 

Derek does not understand the strange sounds he makes.  He’s heard the New Ones use the noises during a hunt, calling to each other across the field.  The sounds never fail to stir a helpless disquiet in his heart.

 

The New One inches closer to the fire, watching Derek.  When Derek does not move from his crouched, defensive position, the New One makes more noises with his mouth.  He makes them as he grabs two sharp sticks, threading the hares onto the pointy ends. He makes sounds as he holds the animals over the fire, the smell of roasting meat making saliva pool in Derek’s mouth.  The whole time, his lips never stop moving. The constant chatter makes Derek crazy. 

 

He holds the charred meat toward Derek, gesturing aggressively.  “Yours. Take it.”

 

After more noises and forceful gesticulations, Derek reaches out, grasping the rabbit in his meaty fist, tearing into the flesh with blunt teeth and powerful jaws.  They eat together in frosty silence. 

 

“Stiles,” the New One says.  Derek glances up at the sound.  The New One is at it again. He pats his chest.  “My name is Stiles.” Derek shakes his head, and the New One sighs.  “What does your sign mean?” He motions toward the sacred symbol on the wall.  “I see them everywhere.”

 

Derek blinks, eyes moving between the slender, pointed finger and the carving.  He can not understand the sounds, but he knows what the New One wants. Derek places a large, blunt hand over his own heart.  _  It is all of me _ .    

 

“Huh,” the New One says.  

 

They continue eating in silence, and Derek finds he misses the noise.      

  
  


**31 BCE**

 

The table overflows with food—sweet bread drizzled with honey, walnuts, dried dates and figs, oysters and eels—and Stiles, Derek’s body slave and the chosen Lord of Misrule for Saturnalia, sits at the head.  Derek’s older sister, Laura, ingested so much wine she’s falling asleep on the couch, so Derek and his younger sister Cora are playing host, feeding Stiles by hand. His sun-stained hair is pulled back in a gold cord, and he wears an old synthesis of Derek’s, the leisurely garment too big on his tall, lanky frame, gaping at the shoulders and neck. 

 

“Fetch me more wine, woman,” Stiles slurs at Cora.  

 

She smack him around the head. “Enjoy it while you can, boy.  Tomorrow the solstice festivities end, and you’ll go back to serving  _ me _ .” 

 

Stiles grins cheekily at her, teeth and lips stained purple from the grapes.  “I don’t serve you. I serve  _ him _ .”  Cora smirks at Stiles’ thinly veiled innuendo.  

 

“What next?” Derek inquires when Cora saunters off toward the kitchen.  

 

“Time to exchange gifts,” Stiles says, pulling a terra-cotta plate from under the table with a flourish.

 

Derek stills as Stiles holds the plate out to him.  “Stiles,” he says in a low, warning voice. “Did you… you didn’t steal this did you?”  As a slave, Stiles has no money of his own, and faces gruesome punishment for theft. Sweat gathers under Derek’s armpits as he thinks of Stiles subjected to it.  

 

“What?” Stiles blinks.  “No! I  _ made _ it.”  His face scrunches.

 

Derek steps closer, shoulders loosening.  “You know it’s not custom for slaves to bestow gifts on their masters tonight, but the other way around.”

 

“So give me my gift,” Stiles demands, chin raised, “after you accept mine.”  He stands, shoving the plate into Derek’s chest. 

 

There’s a swirling pattern etched into the crude brownish-orange ceramic, three interconnecting spirals.  It’s beautiful and haunting in its simplicity, and Derek knows he’s never seen it before, but it’s immediately familiar.  

 

“You made this?  What does it mean?” He whispers to Stiles.  

 

“It came to me in a dream.” Stiles purses his lips, eyes darting away and back to Derek’s face.  “I was somewhere cold, and you were—”

 

They hear Cora humming gaily, returning with their wine, and Derek slips the gift into his robe.

 

“Stiles,” he murmurs, determined to hear the rest later.  “Thank you.” 

  
  
  


**1757**

 

The smell of the lake drifts toward him on a cool breeze snaking through the sun-flecked trees, and the  _ boom  _ of canons rolls over pine-covered mountains, vibrating the air from his chest.  Less than a day’s journey from Fort Edward on horseback, their small traveling party would have been to Fort William Henry by now if Stiles’ horse hadn’t thrown a shoe.  Now he’s stuck waiting on his two Mohawk guides, one standing at the edge of the lake, eyes closed and head cocked, water biting his worn moccasins like a playful dog.

 

A gruff voice rings out, carried to Stiles on the wind.

 

“What’s he saying?” Stiles asks Limikkin.  When news had come from Colonel Monro of the French siege, General Webb had refused to send reinforcements, and Stiles offered up his meger savings to Limikkin to guide him the twenty miles north to the fort.  His best friend Scott was stationed at Fort William Henry, and Stiles refused to abandon him. They’d left in the middle of the night, so quickly Stiles had forgotten to grab his tricorn hat and red waistcoat. Rahrakwasere had mounted his horse and followed them, despite Stiles’ refusal.  He didn’t have enough money to pay two guides. 

 

Limikkin, half-white and half-Mohawk, doesn’t glance away from re-shoeing the horse.  “He says the fort will not stand more than a few days. Your mission is wasted.”

 

Stiles bristles.  “It’s not wasted.”  He directs his words to Rahrakwasere’s tattooed back, even though the Iroquois can not understand him.  “Scott could be alive. I need to go.”

 

Rahrakwasere glances over his shoulder, eyes drinking in the rage puffing Stiles’ chest, and smirks.  He speaks again.

 

“He says you are running toward a battle you can not win.  You are either brave, or mad.” 

 

Stiles deflates, but can’t help grumbling, “Don’t know why he came with us.”  He doesn’t feel brave, and hasn’t since he stepped off a ship into the never-ending wilderness of this new world five years ago.  And the only thing driving him mad is Rahrakwasere’s presence. 

 

“Build a small fire,” Limikkin commands.  “We will eat before we depart, so you have your strength for battle.”

 

“What’s his tattoo mean?” Stiles asks later, while he and Limikkin rip into venison and hardtack.  Rahrakwasere is still standing at the water edge, his back to them. Stiles wishes he’d hurry up and eat, so they can commence their journey.  

 

Three large, interlocking spirals are drawn in black between the warrior’s shoulder blades.  He first glimpsed it on the ride north, and sees it now when the wind plays with Rahrakwasere’s long black hair.  Many of the Iroquois Confederacy have permanent body art symbolizing their tribes and victories, but Stiles has never seen one like this before. Something about it makes his chest ache, but his eyes return to it over and over, pulled to it without his consent, like a scab he can’t stop picking until it bleeds.

 

Limikkin groans, probably wishing he didn’t have to translate between two pugnacious men.  His cheek twitches at Rahrakwasere‘s response to the inquiry. Limikkin’s mother was white, and her pale skin and curly blonde hair have had their way with his darker features. He looks cherubic when he camly translates. “He says mind your own fucking business.”

 

Stiles laughs for the first time since he received word of the siege.  “There’s a Mohawk word for  _ fucking _ ?”

 

Limikkin arches an eyebrow.  “I imagine all languages have a word for it.  It is universal, after all.” Stiles concedes by raising his pewter drinking cup.

 

Rahrakwasere walks over, feet eerily silent on the forest floor, and sits next to Stiles on a fallen birch log.  Stiles hands him a chuck of warm, roasted meat. Rahrakwasere speaks, and Stiles wishes—not for the first time—that language was not a barrier between them.  He’s learning though, and some of the words trickle into his brain, like  _ ehnita _ , moon, and  _ karahkwa _ , sun.

 

“The symbol has many meanings-” Limikkin voice speaks Rahrakwasere’s words- “but to me it means this.  Three things cannot long be hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth. It came to me in dreams as a child, spoken in a voice as old as time.  The truth of oneself, who you truly are, will always come to light. This symbol is who I am. It is all of me.”

 

“T-thank you,” Stiles stutters, chest tight.  “I…” He’s at a loss for words in his own language.  “I like looking at it.” He grimaces at the childish statement.

 

But Rahrakwasere does not mind the inarticulate mess.  He studies Stiles, dark eyes rimmed with forest-green and molten-gold, the colors of the leaves in early autumn. “You have dreamed of this, too.”  A statement, not a question.

 

Stiles shakes his head.  “No. I haven’t.”

 

He places a hand on Stiles leg, right above the mitasses fastened at his knee.  “You have. You will.”

  
  


**1917**

  
  


Stiles runs from body to body in the trench, searching for the battered men he hears praying and moaning and screaming over the wiz of bullets and crack of gunshots.  He doesn’t see the leg until it trips him, sprawling him flat on his face in the bloody mud. 

 

The soldier is missing an arm, blown off directly above the elbow.  Stiles grabs for his tourniquet, until his eyes sweep up the struggling chest and torso, and he finds a bullet hole in the man’s neck.  “Merde!” Stiles yells. “Bordel de merde!”

 

The soldier’s head lolls, blinking at the sound of Stiles voice and  _ oh shit, _ Stiles knows this man.  Dark, close cropped hair, chiseled jaw, green eyes; all as familiar as the back of his own hand.  

 

“Hey!  I know you!” He yells, hysteria pitching his voice an octave too high, because he’s never seen this man before, yet he knows him anyhow. The soldier blinks, tries to speak, but the effort makes blood flow faster from the wound torn through his throat.

 

Stiles reaches for the arm still attached to the soldier’s body, slipping gentle, gore-soaked fingers under the cuff of his horizon-blue uniform, chanting a nonstop mantra of,  “I know you I know you I know you.”

 

_ Derek Hale _ his plaque d'identité proclaims, along with his rank and formation.  Stiles rips the bracelet off his wrist, and flips over the metal disk.  On the back he finds a crudely engraved triskèle.

 

Tears track through the drying dirt on Stiles’ face as he rubs his thumb over the swirls. Flashes of memories that are not his own dance in the corner of his vision; firelight licking the cold walls of a dark cave, a sandal-clad foot peeking out from under a tan toga, a vast lake stretching for miles, a kind voice whispering  _ I’ll protect you _ . “Will we ever get this right?” He asks.  But the man does not answer. He is already gone.

 

“Docteur! Docteur!  Leave him! You’re needed elsewhere.” Someone shakes his shoulder, hard. The strawberry-blonde hair of Lydia, a fearless battle nurse, enters his field of vision.  Her mouth forms a silent  _ oh _ at the anguish slashing Stiles’ features.

 

“I knew him,” he cries.

 

**1958**

 

Bobby, the school custodian, stops in front of Derek’s door, mop and bucket in hand.  “You gotta stop that kid from doodling on the desks, Mr. Hale. He’s driving me nuts.”

 

Derek glances up from the spelling test he’s grading while the students are at recess.  “I’m sorry, Bobby. I’ve spoken to Stiles several times, and given him lunch detention, but he keeps drawing those little symbols as soon as I turn my back in class.  If you leave me a rag, I’ll gladly wash the desks after dismissal.”

 

“Naw.”  Bobby plops the mop into the dwindling suds.  “Weird, though. Don’t you think? He draws the same little curly circles everywhere he goes, like he’s possessed or something.  Draws ‘em on the cafeteria tables, too. Kid’s a menace.”

 

Derek shakes his head.  “It’s a coping mechanism.   Stiles lost his mother last year, and he’s anxious a lot.  The repetitive motion soothes him. I’m not excusing his defacing of school property, but he doesn’t mean to be a nuisance.”

 

Bobby glances down the hall. “Speak of the devil.”  The kids file back into the classroom, cheeks ruddy from exertion and fresh air.  

 

Derek stands to greet them.  “Okay everyone, let’s get out our history textbooks.  We’re learning about Ancient Rome today!”

 

Half-way through the lesson an alarm blares. Derek freezes.  There was no drill set for today.

 

All his training kicks in.  “Duck and cover!” He yells to the children.  They, too, have the routine ingrained at this point in the school year, and they climb under their desks, covering their heads and necks, as Bert the Turtle—and the Civil Defense Administration— advised them to do.  They’ve practiced in the hallways, the library, the gymnasium. At this point, the threat of nuclear fallout is as predictable as the cafeteria serving meatloaf on Monday.

 

Unplanned drills happen throughout the year; this is probably nothing more than that.  Derek shimmies his bulk under the metal frame of an empty desk as best he can. From this new vantage point he notices Stiles reaching one arm up, trying to place his palm over the triskelion he etched on his desktop sometime since he came in from recess, while keeping the other hand pressed over an ear.

 

“Hey,” Derek admonishes, standing up and walking over.  He squats next to the doe-eyed boy. “Stiles? What are you doing?  It isn’t safe to—” that’s when he notices the trembling.

 

Stiles gasps, eyes squeezed closed and fingers scrabbling at the worn wooden desktop.  “I need it,” He wheezes. “It helps. I don’t know why.”

 

“You don’t need it,” Derek says, gently taking Stiles’ shaking hand in his own.  “ _ I’m _ here.   _ I’ll _ help.”

 

Stiles opens his dark-brown eyes, locking onto Derek’s calm face. Derek’s observed the boy since September—six hours a day, over one hundred and twenty-five days—but this feels like the first time he  _ sees _ him.

 

“I’m scared,” Stiles wimpers, lip quivering.  

 

“Don’t be,” Derek whispers back, strong, fierce and sure.  Nuclear bomb be damned. “I’ll protect you.”

  
  


**2011**

 

The last place a jock like Derek would frequent is a rock shop, but he slows as he passes the downtown store nonetheless.  Last week in the locker room, Jackson had proclaimed those who worked and shopped at the new store a ‘bunch of hippie fags,’ and Derek had taken extra pleasure knocking his ass on to the grass at Lacrosse practice.  

 

He expects cloying incense and tinkling music when he pushes open the door, but silence greets him, except for a perfuctionary, “Hey dude.  Let me know if you need help,” from the guy behind the cash wrap. 

 

He stands on the threshold, distinctly out of place in his team jersey, not sure why he entered. But he feels a strange need to walk toward the back of the store, past bins of red jasper and brown agate and lapis lazuli, to a display marked  _ Hand Painted Stones _ .

 

There are dozens of iridescent painted rocks, all shapes and sizes, wrapped neatly in little mesh bags secured with satin ribbon, and Derek reaches blindly into the bin.  His fingers graze a rock at the bottom, and he pulls it out. It’s shaped like a heart, a subtle rainbow of purples, greens and blues reflecting the fluorescent light on the ceiling, a white painted triskelion on the face.

 

Derek’s eyebrows join his hairline.  _ Weird _ .  There’s a tattoo of a triskelion on Derek’s back, still healing, he got the day he turned eighteen.  “I read about this symbol,” the tattoo artist had said, flipping on the buzzing needle. “It’s been around forever, has lots of meaning.  Why’d you choose this design?”

 

“It’s just... me,” Derek had replied, removing his shirt and climbing into the chair.   _ It is all of me. _

 

It’s a little too gauche for his taste, but he wants the rock anyway  The thought of leaving it in the bin for someone else to find is abhorrent, so he checks the price tag—$11.95, not too bad—and walks back to the register, pulling out his wallet.

 

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

 

Derek experiences the strongest case of  _ deja vu _ he’s ever felt when he gazes into the brown eyes of the young cashier.  He’s stunned silent, standing dumbly before the glass case serving as a cash wrap, holding out the triskelion.  

 

The cashier, who’s name tag reads  _ Hi! I’m Stiles _ smiles at him.  “You okay, man? Oh!  A painted rock? I made those!  Lorraine, she’s the owner, she told me I could sell them.  I may have gone a bit overboard and made too many. If they don’t sell soon we’ll have to mark them as clearance and I won’t make back any of the production costs.  So buy this now, and not next week.”

 

Derek blinks at the rapid-fire assault of words into his brain.  “Uh. Yeah I… want this one.” He places the rock on the glass. 

 

Stiles’ smile widens, generous mouth taking up the bottom half of his face.  “Oh cool, you picked the triskelion! I only made one of those. Hey, is this a gift for your girlfriend?”

 

Derek’s head is spinning.  “What? No. I’m...I don’t have a girlfriend.  It’s for me. I actually have a triskelion tattoo on my back.”

 

“No way!  If it weren’t weird I’d totally ask to see it.  But it is weird, right? I mean, I don’t even know your name, but you do seem kind of familiar.”

 

“I’m Derek.  And you’re Stiles?”

 

“Dude!  How did you know?” Derek points to the name tag pinned to Stiles t-shirt.  “Oh yeah.” Stiles laughs. “I always forget I’m wearing one.”

 

Stiles rings up Derek’s purchase and pops it into a little orange bag with an exorbitant amount of tissue paper.  Derek will look ridiculous carrying it down main street. Stiles slips a business card on top.

 

“Have a nice day, Derek.  Come back soon.”

 

Derek steps away, turns back, clutching the bag in his fist.  “You know, I almost didn’t come in here today. I almost walked past but something...I’m glad I did, though.  Walk in,” he clarifies.

 

Stiles grins.  “I’m glad too.”

 

On the sidewalk outside the store Derek opens the bag and pulls out his rock, examining it in the sunlight.  The business card sticks to it before fluttering to the ground. He picks it up. Stiles scrawled the worst pick-up line in history on the back 

 

_ Could it be fate?  Let’s go on a date.  Call me! (707) 555-0139 _

 

“Wow, that’s terrible.” Derek smiles, and pulls out his phone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm [Jamie.](https://jmeelee.tumblr.com/)
> 
> This story was inspired by the YA book Reincarnation by Suzanne Weyn.


End file.
